Donuts
by samchandler1986
Summary: It's how they deal, Sam and Ruth.


The nurse gives her a sympathetic smile as she takes her pulse. It's small but genuine, creasing her eyes. "Okay Ruth, you're all good to go," she says. "Your husband is just outside."

"Thanks," she says automatically. "You've been very kind, and—"

"You're welcome, honey." She is already moving, checking the pulse of another girl in another chair of the discharge lounge.

Ruth stands carefully, ready for pain. It's there, but as dull discomfort rather than red-hot agony. More surprising is the shaking, post-fight feeling. She aches; but it's secondary to the fight-or-flight of the body under attack. The lights are too bright, sounds are too loud. She flinches at the click of the door handle.

Sam is indeed outside, actually biting his thumbnail as he stares out of the door. She trains her tunnel vision on him. Uncharacteristically calm and still. Is this what he is, she thinks, outside of the gym, away from the camera? Stripped of all his bravado and bile is there a kinder self, folded inside the gruff carapace?

He catches her eye and smiles. It's the same smile as the nurse, small and sympathetic, like she is a frightened animal. One that needs soft words and gentle hands to settle raised hackles.

"You ready to go?"

"Uh-huh."

His hand rests lightly between her shoulder blades as he walks her towards the car. She settles into the seat, still shaking slightly. As adrenalin ebbs the aching pain is sharper. She closes her eyes, lulled by the motion of the car.

"Ruth?"

She jerks awake. "Sorry, I—"

"It's fine. Do you still want donuts?"

They are pulled up at the gas station near the motel. "Yeah," she croaks, dry mouthed.

He considers her, still blinking into consciousness, not quite able to hide a small wince as she undoes her seat belt. He gets out and comes around to the passenger side to open her door.

She looks up at him. "I didn't think you—?"

"Yeah, yeah." He extends his hand to help her up. "I just didn't want to wait all day."

* * *

The ice in her Coke has melted. She slurps the last dregs through her straw, engrossed in her book. Shifts in the seat, unsticking herself from the leather. The windows are down but there's no wind. She might have to—

The front door opens. She puts down the book and paper cup slowly. She isn't sure whether to hunker down and hide or sit straight-backed and earnest at the wheel. She decides on the latter, in case she's already been seen. Sam exits the neat little house. A woman—Rosalie, she assumes—follows him into the light. They say goodbye on the driveway, cordial but firm, and Sam returns to the car. He settles into the passenger seat.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he says carefully, waving one final time to the woman on the drive. She returns the goodbye, and turns back inside. "You okay to drive?"

"Sure," she says, and pulls them away.

He is quiet, all the way out of the suburbs and onto the highway. She chances a glance now and then, when traffic allows. Unusually still, eyes unseeing; his gaze turned inward. They've done this before, she remembers, only the other way around.

There's a packet of cigarettes in the door pocket. She fumbles for one, hands over the thin cylinder wordlessly. The routine of habit kicks in as he takes it, lights it; smokes it without speaking.

"So, I spoke to Glen about our sponsor problem," she tries. "He said he'll see what he can do."

"Uh-huh."

"I mean, it'll probably be another golfing buddy. But we made it work last time, right?"

"Right."

Silence again. He was manic on the journey down, running through potential scenarios with her, joking, chain-smoking. She itches to know if any of their simulations matched the reality. Fiddles with the radio instead. Thumping electronica fuzzes in and out as they speed toward home. It's going to be a long ride.

Half an hour passes. She's more or less retreated into her own brain, thinking about scenarios for Zoya and Liberty to explore over the coming weeks, when he finally opens his mouth. "Sorry. You probably had better things to do today."

"It's fine. I read some more on history of classical wrestling. Might help with some of the staging." She sighs. "I understand if you don't want to talk about it, but I feel like I should… check you're not going to disappear on us for another three days once we get home."

He barks a laugh. "No promises."

There's a gas station coming up. She purses her lips. "You wanna go get donuts?"

* * *

" _I had a feeling you'd show up on my doorstep sooner or later."_

 _It's hard to say if she's as he remembers, because he doesn't remember much. She has long dark hair and familiar brown eyes. Familiar because she shares them with their daughter. The thought catches in his chest again, and he has to clear his throat noisily, awkwardly, to speak. "Justine gave me your address."_

" _I know. She told me. She's a good girl. Most of the time."_

" _Yeah, she's, uh, she's a great kid."_

 _Rosalie folds her arms, unimpressed. "I'm glad you're getting the chance to find that out for yourself."_

" _Yeah, about that… Um. Can I come in?"_

" _Sure."_

 _The house is small; nondescript suburban. Only the pictures hanging in the hallway give any clue to Rosalie's past life as barkeep. Black and white artistic shots, long haired hippies and punk-rockers. There's a museum quality to them; like it's already ancient history, a lifetime ago. For Rosalie, maybe it is._

" _You have a lovely home," he says._

" _Uh-huh. How'd you take you coffee?"_

" _Black, thanks."_

 _She busies herself with the drinks, ignoring his open gawking at the ephemera of her everyday life. "So," she says, as he takes his first sip of the scalding coffee. "What did you come here to find out?"_

 _He takes another micro-sip, trying to assemble his thoughts. He practiced this conversation with Ruth a thousand ways on the journey down; workshopping it like it was one of her scene studies. Now, in the moment, the whole exercise feels hollow. "You never told me," he finds himself saying, surprised at how constricted his voice sounds._

 _Rosalie shrugs. "It's not like you left me your number…"_

" _I-I know but… you could have found me."_

 _She sighs. "Yeah, I could've. I thought about it."_

" _And, what? Decided I wasn't good enough?" He is almost shouting._ Why _is he almost shouting?_

" _Yeah," she says, as if he's proved her point. "Pretty much. I knew what kind of life you were living then. You're telling me that in between all the blow and the rallies, the dive bar lays, the all-night shoots and casting couches… you had room for a little girl?"_

 _He manages to hold her gaze but only just. "I could have made time."_

" _You would have resented it. Every_ second _of it. I didn't want that for her."_

 _He has no answer to this ringing truth. His fingers twitch, but he left his cigarettes in the car with Ruth. He wanted to make a good impression. "Yeah. You're right. I'm sorry."_

" _And me," she says, softer. "I know there would have been good times too. But I had to put her first. Understand?"_

" _Yeah, I do. I get it." He feels six inches tall; smaller than when his wife took everything in the shit-show that was his divorce. Even his anger has retreated, leaving just this shell of a man, sipping coffee for want of snorting cocaine._

" _I think she's a lot like you," Rosalie offers._

 _He recognises the lifeline for what it is. "Really?"_

" _Yeah. I mean, she's stubborn. And she's a great artist. She writes. All that creative stuff I was never any good at. She's smart."_

" _Yeah, she's been helping me film some stuff. On location. She's got a good eye."_

" _She wants to be in the industry. I know that much." She looks at him, with Justine's eyes. "You think she's got what it takes?"_

" _Yeah," he says, surprised to find he means it. "She's my daughter."_

 _Rosalie smiles at that, just a little. "I'm glad we had this talk."_

 _He's not sure he agrees, but nods anyway, draining his coffee. Time is up. She walks him back towards the front door. "Do you still have the bar?" he blurts out, as they pass through the hallway._

" _Yeah, three of 'em now. We're working on building a chain. Me and my husband."_

 _He'd already noticed the wedding band. "Sounds good."_

 _Her hand is on the door. "Apart from the TV show, how's your life? Is that your… wife you left out there in the car?"_

" _No," he says, "that's Ruth. She's a-a friend. She works on the show."_

" _Good friend," says Rosalie, raising a sceptical eyebrow. "It's a long way to come."_

" _Yeah, she is," he replies stoutly. "Look, I know you don't need this. But just in case." He presses his card into her palm. "Now you do have my number."_

 _She turns it over, smiles. "Thanks."_

* * *

"Wow," says Ruth, as he finishes his tale. "Sounds intense."

The donuts sit untouched on the table between them; one plain sugar, one pink frosted. "Yeah." He pinches the bridge of his nose below his glasses. "What the fuck do I do now, though?"

"Hmm." She picks up her pink donut, takes a bite. "Same thing we always do. Eat the donuts. And then get on with it. Make the most of what we do have left in our lives out of the wreckage of our mistakes."

He considers this, and finds himself chuckling. "Melodramatic much?"

"This from the man who wrote a three-hour screen play about his mommy issues?"

"Ouch, alright." Through a mouthful of sugar, he adds: "I'm still not over that disappointment either, thank you very much."

"Well, you need to be," she says, "because we need to figure out how the hell to top last week's finale."

"Oh, I worked that out already," he says, spraying crumbs. "Tag-team match. Britain and American versus Russia and China."

"What?"

"Yeah, yeah. I want Rhonda to ride in on a white horse. Trust me. It's gonna look _epic_ …"


End file.
